Figuring it Out

Sometimes it’s in the air. A look, a move, jumping into an action you normally disapprove of. Sometimes it’s a reaction nobody sees until you think back on the hints that linger.

It could just finally be quiet. A life holding more weight than it should. Boredom. A mind running, tripped by the anxiety of sitting with yourself and trying to help, with a hand used to fisting and fighting and a mind waiting for something better.

I worked hard to be the same through pleasure and pain. I thought that made me a top tiger among concrete predators who earn and strut stripes taking hearts they weren’t raised with. That attitude didn’t allow me to give or feel enough, not even from man’s favorite pleasure, so I daydreamed pain.

I made every day a fight so my hands could hold tension instead of the love I claimed to protect. It was not all me, though. But that doesn’t matter when you’re grown.

Sometimes I rely on old souls that passed. They feel close on nights like this, looking down and reminding me of ass whoopings, because the home they left behind pays allowance to misbehavers.

You cannot expect others to make adjustments if you don’t. That will be the only thought about you when people think you’re showing up.

We all have the ability to show up different. We also know comfort is a sexy bitch, fucking you every way you don’t want anyone to know you imagine.

What are you willing to give up tonight?